These things we say

quiet enough that the world has to lean in to hear us

half out of a fever dream

carved into stone

or scratched out on a page already burning

they litter the floor with ash

As we shelter in place behind the walls of new-wave speakeasies

we sway dangerously in time

to music only we can hear

casting spells at sunset

the light trickling through stained glass windows

blood on white chapel walls

pooling where we walk among a congregation of heads bowed

and eyes that for some reason never leave the polished floor 

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Photo by mentatdgt from Pexels